Hair Cut
by the lie written in ink
Summary: In which Cartman cuts Kyle's hair. Drabble;; slight fluff, slight insanity.


"Ready, _Kahl_?"

I shuddered at the horrifying sight before me. Cartman with a pair of scissors in his hands and a grin on his face, alone in my room, the inevitable first cut coming soon. I don't know how it ended up like this. I really didn't. My mother had a weird hatred for barber shops and professional hair salons. That was why my hair was always so long and unruly.

Next year, we'd be freshmen in high school, and I wanted to ditch my hat and crazy hair. Stan had offered to cut my hair but then, somehow, Cartman convinced him to switch places, and now I had no choice. Well, I guess I did, but for some reason I wasn't scared enough to flee.

Sure, he could make me look like an emo or a fag (eh, they're the same thing) or even, knowing Cartman and his racist views, Hitler's hair. But, for some reason, I kind of trusted him not to do something that drastic. I mean yeah we hated each other, but we were still friends. Sort of.

Eh. Was this really friendship or did he just hang around to piss me off and make fun of me?

The thoughts blew away as Cartman advanced toward me. Instead of losing weight upon entering high school, Cartman somehow managed to keep a steady weight of 246 pounds. Somehow he weighed more then he looked. At that moment his looming, wide presence as he waved the scissors made me recline in my chair in fear.

"I said, ready?" he repeated, now right in front of me, looking impatient. I took a nervous gulp and scratched my messy red hair, as if saying goodbye to it, and nodded quickly. My stomach dropped at the wide, evil grin that crossed his face.

"Okay, Kahl, sit back and re-lax! Cartman's got yeh covered!" he shouted a bit too enthusiastically, slapping the corner of my chair, causing it to jerk toward the other side of the room, my back to the mirror. That wasn't a good sign.

"Ah, Cartman, maybe—" I began in a shaky voice when the fatass cut me off.

"Ei, ei, shut the fuck up! I'm tryin' to concentrate!"

Eric Cartman never changed from when he was a kid. He still didn't pronounce my name right, made up ridiculous schemes, and most of all, liked playing pretend. He had come to my house prepared, hair slicked back and sunglasses perched on his nose. He kept pursing his lips as if in thought when I spoke, and would sway his hips when he walked, but because he had such a fat ass, he'd stumble or hit the wall. Of course that didn't face him; he got up and made a little noise of annoyance and sashayed on.

I turned to him, curious as to what was taking him so long, and snickered. He had one eye scrunched shut and made a box with his hands, framing me, lips pursed and eyebrows knitted together seriously.

"Get on with it," I said once my amusement was gone. He made a tsk noise and slapped my computer chair again, causing it to swivel back sharply. I could hear the scissors open and snap shut, causing me to wince. Suddenly his hands were tangled in my hair, running through them, oddly gentle.

What the _hell_.

The weird, small moment of comfort and, oddly, bliss, left when he pulled his hands away and made a 'hum' noise. I felt him take a strand of hair and cut. I grimaced, squeezing my eyes shut as he snipped away my lovely long red locks one by one, oddly smooth and even more oddly, gentle and careful.

Before I knew it he was dropping the scissors on the bathroom mirror and turned the chair toward it, his glasses perched on his head and an oddly adorable smirk-grin on his face.

"Well?"

I blinked at my reflection, and the boy blinked back. My hair was gone, replaced by tame curly hairs atop my head, a bit messy and jagged, but it looked much better then before. I blinked once more and looked at Cartman.

"Now that I made you awesome," he said, crossing his arms. I narrowed my eyes slightly. "….you have to kiss my foot."

"_What_?"

"Do it," he jeered, shaking his foot slightly. "If you don't, I'll cut your hair all your hair off."

I growled. "Not if I run."

"Oh, but you won't, dear sweet Jew, because I happen to be a fast runner and a good stalker."

I pressed my lips together angrily. "Shut up fatass, I'm not kissing your shoes."

"How about my ass?"

"As if I could without passing out from the stench."

"Why thank you."

"Fat ass."

"Hey! My mommy says I'm just big-boned!"

"No, you're fat!"

"And you're a Jew!"

"Yes I am!"

"Yes you are!"

"Damn it, Cartman!"

"What were we yelling about again!?"

"I don't fucking know!" I said in one last angry breath before taking a calmer one and staring at him blankly. He stared back, mirroring my expression.

"Thanks for the hair cut," I said curtly. "Now get the hell out of my house."

I grabbed my computer chair and began to push it out of the bathroom, back to my room. Cartman mutely followed me into my room as I put the chair back in its place. I shot him a weird look and turned.

"I'm not leaving 'till you kiss my foot."

"I'm not gonna kiss your foot, Cartman!"

"How about my balls?"

"GET OUT. RIGHT NOW."

He blinked at me. "PSH! FINE! I DON'T WANNA BE IN A JEW'S HOUSE ANYWAY! The Nazis might come and ship you away!"

"Fat ass! I fucking hate you!" I snapped, glaring at him as he glared back and stomped away. Once he slammed my door shut I sat on my bed, gently touching my curls, imaging his fingers running through them again, his silence so beautiful and his presence alien and gentle.

I knew two things then.

I didn't hate Eric Cartman.

And I knew he'd be coming back tomorrow.


End file.
